160 



I cannot tell the year of grace 

 In whicli these things were taking place ; 

 But this I know, a portly Squire 

 Now bruises over Leicestershire, 

 Whom Sutton X loveth to commend 

 His " Guide, Philosopher and Friend," 

 And none with him dispute the right 

 To lead the field from morn to night. 

 But tho' among the thrusting train 

 You seek for Gilmour's face in vain, 

 Wait till the second horsemen pass, 

 You see a form — tis his, alas ! 

 A heavy man who funks the stiles. 

 And shudders at the name of " Miles." 



MOHAL. 



Such is the lot of mortal man ! 

 Where Gilmour ended, Miles began ; 

 And Miles in turn must yield his sway, 

 For " every dog must have his day." 



W. Dayenpoet Beomlet. 



HUNTING SONG OF SIR HARET 

 GOODRICKE'S TIME. 



The lark forgets her summer song. 



The rose forgets its bloom, 

 And murky clouds are borne along 



To aid the wintry gloom. 



t Sir Richard Sutton hunted the Quorn cimntry from 1 847 

 till his death in 1855. 



